Into the Ocean
by Pika-Zukin
Summary: A 12-year-old Tracey gets his first pokemon on a night when pokemon are the last things on his mind.


> Oh, my Tracey.  
The title, as well as some of the mood, is inspired by a Geggy Tah song of the same name.  
The meeting-Marill scene was Blackjack Gabbiani's idea, and she was kind enough to give me permission to work with it. Harbor Master Sketchit was an invention of an old friend of mine who left Pokémon for grander diversions.  
In a way, I suppose I didn't write this story at all.   
P-Z
> 
> **Into the Ocean**
> 
> My reflection is ripply. He looks up at me, where I look down at him. Well, he isn't really looking up. But I see the underside of the dock, then him. It's an interesting angle. I should sketch it.
> 
> "Get away from there," my father growls. He's scratching something on a clipboard. "Do you wanna fall in and drown?"
> 
> _Yes,_ I think, but obediently step back.
> 
> His report on the ships docked at Tangelo Harbor is finished. "All right, let's go," he says. I turn and follow, silently telling my mirror image that I'll be back to jump in after him another day.
> 
> He's annoyed with me. It's not the way he's not talking -- he never really speaks that much -- but more of the way he walks, large strides, jaw set. The slamming car door seems louder. I remove my backpack, set it between my feet, and buckle my seat belt. The dashboard clock reads 1:35. I'd be sitting in reading class now, if it wasn't for--
> 
> "Came down with a fever, my eye," he mumbles. "I know when your mother's trying to cover for you."
> 
> "It's not my fault," I say numbly. "They started it."
> 
> "And that's why you lost. You should stand up for yourself. Stop being a girl."
> 
> It's really an old speech, because he's too lazy to think of a new one. _"But if your mother had given you a boy's name, maybe you'd be a man by now."_ He always has to pause between "your" and "mother," as though he wants to add an adjective. The pause speaks for itself.
> 
> He doesn't deliver the line. But he sighs. My stomach still hasn't come unknotted.
> 
> It's gone. It was mostly blank, but the dozen or so pages filled with drawings are scattered over the playground now. Maybe someone's cleaned them away now that recess is over, but they're still muddy and ripped and ruined. The rest of the book is battered and hiding in the weeds.
> 
> There's also mud on my shorts. And my legs. I pick at some from my knee, careful not to stick my fingernail in the tender scrape. The rest of the ride home is thankfully quiet.
> 
> Mom's waiting at the front door. She instantly puts the back of her hand to my forehead, then my cheeks. "You do feel a little warm," she says. "Hurry up to bed, and I'll bring you some soup."
> 
> "Okay," I say quietly, flashing her a grateful look, deliberately avoiding my father, though I feel his eyes on me as I leave the kitchen. Around the corner, I slip into the bathroom to clean off, and I hear them.
> 
> "...missed about half an hour of work," Dad is saying. "Why didn't you get him?"
> 
> "Because you were closer to the school." I hear the can opener.
> 
> "What, wasted already?" Dad grunts. Mom chooses not to answer, opening a cupboard and getting out a bowl. I run some water over a washcloth and wipe off the caked-on mud, then stick a couple of band-aids on my knee. The kitchen door bangs shut, and I'm sure Mom is as relaxed now as I feel.
> 
> "Here you go." She carries in the bowl of microwaved soup and a glass of orange juice on a TV tray, which she places before me as I sit up in bed. I thank her and stir the soup a little, watching the grease mix in for a moment before it floats to the surface again. "You probably already had lunch," Mom says. "But I thought you could use a little something anyway."
> 
> I nod. There's never a bad time to eat.
> 
> "Dad's not mad at you," she continues. "You just know how he gets."
> 
> "Yeah." I slurp some of the thin noodles, wiping my chin.
> 
> She never knows what to say, but I understand. I get my awkwardness from her.
> 
> "You want to talk about it?" she asks after awhile.
> 
> "Not really."
> 
> "You can stay home as long as you want. If it was up to me, we'd move and you could go to a new school."
> 
> "There's no point, really," I tell her.
> 
> She fidgets a little, then says she has to go take care of laundry. I look around my small bedroom, plain but familiar. The curtains are thin, faded, handed down when my parents got new ones. My quilt is from my grandmother's attic, when we had to clean out her house. A lot of my possessions are old. Thinking about it makes me want to create something new. But my sketchbook is gone.
> 
> I take my tray downstairs when I'm finished, and help Mom dry the dishes. Then I peel potatoes as she gets dinner ready. The TV is on in the living room, providing background noise. My stomach has long since unknotted, and I marvel at the peacefulness as I try to make one long, continuous, spiral peel.
> 
> When I hear Dad's car outside, however, I race back upstairs. Mom agrees to bring me some dinner later. She's nice to keep up the "sick day" charade.
> 
> It's dark out when I return the tray again to the kitchen. I pass Dad in the living room, who has the newspaper in front of him, hiding. Hopefully he doesn't hear me creeping past. Mom is leaning against the counter, next to the sink where water is running over the evening's dishes. She gives me a little smile and sets down her glass. Not holding it means she isn't really drinking.
> 
> "I'm going for a walk," I whisper, depositing my plate in the sink.
> 
> "Be careful," she whispers back.
> 
> The autumn air is crisp, but never very cold. I can smell the sea, and that's where I'm headed -- though it's impossible not to reach the sea at some point on an island. I find myself at the harbor, where I'd stood with my father not seven hours ago. I sit on the edge of the same dock, and look down to greet my reflection, who waited for me.
> 
> Is his life in reflection-world different from mine? Or is it only mirrored? I wouldn't want him to suffer.
> 
> I lean forward more, and let go.
> 
> I close my eyes for the short descent. The smack of the water stings, but, once I sink in, it engulfs me, embraces me with welcome. It's chilly and dark. It's another world. It's new.
> 
> I'm starting to rise. If I'm discovered, someone will drag me ashore, send me home. Maybe if I stop holding my breath.
> 
> My thoughts seem faraway, as though I could reach out and grab them, but I no longer want them. What I want is what's happening right now, this submergence, this reception. I open my mouth and force myself to inhale. My chest is tight.
> 
> Already my world is changing. I feel like I'm drifting up... but that should be impossible. Then my skin is cold, my body is reacting to natural forces: I take in a deep breath, marvelling at the cold air in my lungs. I crack open my eyes to see stars above. Why?
> 
> I'm still alive. I failed again.
> 
> There is something touching my left shoulder. When I turn my head, I see a spherical form, round eyes sparkling in the harbor's lamps. I splash about, trying to get myself upright, and the pokémon squeals, panicked, reaching out its stubby arms. "It's okay," I tell it, kicking my legs slowly to keep my body afloat.
> 
> The breeze on my wet face and neck makes me shiver. I was not meant for the ocean's warm embrace tonight.
> 
> "Marii!" the pokémon scolds.
> 
> "Okay, I'll get out." I wasn't in deep enough, anyway. I paddle a few feet until I'm able to stand next to the dock, then walk to shore. To my surprise, the Marill follows me. I play the staring game with it as I squeeze the water from my shirt.
> 
> "I won't disturb you again," I say. "Sorry about that. Next time, I'll find another dock to jump from. It's a big harbor."
> 
> Marill squeaks at me, its tone argumentive.
> 
> "Thanks, then. Is that what you want to hear? Too bad I had my mind made up, but you're a hero. Go tell your friends." I begin walking home. No point in trying again tonight.
> 
> "Ma-ar!" It follows me. I glance over my shoulder at it. Looking at it another way, Marill _did_ save my life, whether I wanted it to or not.
> 
> Maybe it wants to keep me company? Does this pokémon, who knows nothing about me, want to be my friend?
> 
> I turn and kneel down, waiting. Marill comes to me, butting its head against my outstretched hand, asking to be petted. I scratch the wet fur between its ears, smiling for the first time today.


End file.
